Distance
by Verdreht
Summary: After the tesseract, Clint has a lot to think about. The distance helps...or maybe not. can be seen as Thor/Clint pre-slash, or just friendship.


From a distance, New York City was actually kind of gorgeous. Peaceful, even.

But then, Clint figured a lot of things were like that: better admired from a distance. Natasha was like that. He always liked her best when he was out of arm's reach, when her beauty wasn't offset by the risk of death by her hands. She was the epitome of "beautiful but deadly" and though Clint accepted that about her…

Well, it made it kind of hard to get close to her.

He'd accepted a long time ago that he and Natasha wanted different things. As much as she tried to change – though to be honest, she hadn't tried all that hard – it was as much her nature to keep things at a distance as it was Clint's.

The difference being, he was willing to adapt, to fight his nature, to find that _something more_.

She wasn't.

He'd accepted that a long time ago…but that didn't mean it didn't still hurt.

That said, Natasha Romanov wasn't the reason he was sitting on the roof of Stark Tower at God-Only-Knows o'clock in the morning. He'd already done his time over her, hopping high rises in Budapest so many times he probably got a permanent case of altitude sickness. He wasn't _over_ her, but he wasn't about to stick his hand back in the cage when he knew he'd only get bitten.

No, this wasn't Natasha. This was _everything else_.

See, the problem with guilt was that it never hit immediately. Didn't even hit when it should. No, it waited until the strangest _possible_ moment to rear its ugly head.

For Clint, it was the second—make that the _third_ bite of shawarma. Suddenly, the meat tasted like sandpaper, the lettuce like shreds of toilet paper, and when he swallowed, it hit his stomach like a lead weight.

Needless to say, he hadn't eaten much after that. Hadn't slept any, either, unlike a certain Captain that Tony had practically _carried_ out of the restaurant (once he'd shot a straw wrapper at him and nearly given him a concussion). It was a good thing they were all crashing at what was left of Stark's tower; they'd have never all made it home.

At least, those of them that had a home. Maybe it was silly, but Clint always thought he'd give next to anything to be able to say "I can see my house from here" and not be joking. But no, he didn't have a home. Just a nest, a roost, a place where he could escape to collect his thoughts.

"Damn it, Stark…you're letting me down." Because it was _definitely_ Tony's fault that his damn tower wasn't clearing Clint's head like he'd hoped it would. The height usually helped – the further away from everything he was, the better. It was how he had always lived. Distance made him feel in control, like he could see everything through the crosshairs and they couldn't see him. It put things in perspective, perspective which he could _really_ fucking use right then.

It was weird, remembering all the things he had done under the influence of the tesseract. He'd have thought it would be remote, fuzzy. That's how mind-control was supposed to work.

Only, it hadn't really _been_ mind-control, had it? What that _thing_ had done…it hadn't controlled Clint; it had scooped him out, anything that made him who he was, and stuffed in something else. All of his morals, his beliefs, his loyalties…they'd been stolen. All that had mattered was his purpose, and now he could only remember that purpose and everything he'd done to fulfill it, all in such painful clarity that he could almost lose himself in it every damn time he closed his eyes.

The problem was, what he saw didn't change – but _he_ had. Every ounce of guilt and hate and fear and _please dear God don't make me hurt anyone else_ came flooding in, nearly crippling in their intensity.

That was what had him on that rooftop: trying to sort through the tumult between his head and chest, trying to consolidate the logical understanding that there was nothing he could've done to stop it with the guilt he felt regardless.

It wasn't working very well.

He still saw it, every time he closed his eyes. Still felt the stabbing in his chest like a knife, like the sting of that spear Loki had stuck to him, like the burn of blue fire as the power of the tesseract had spread through him.

He shuddered, his eyes closing of their own accord as he rubbed his face.

He needed to shave.

It would have to wait.

Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the building, watching as his Converses bounced off the concrete of the side of it. Hell of a fall it'd be, if he tipped over. He wouldn't – he did still have his pride – but still…hell of a fall.

It'd been a while since he'd done this in civvies, he noted offhandedly. Been a while since he'd been in civvies, period. Things had been too busy with S.H.I.E.L.D. for him to spend anything more than his few sleeping hours out of his fatigues, and sometimes, he didn't even make it that far. It was almost a little weird to look down at himself and see jeans and a t-shirt.

The sound of glass crunching snapped him from his musings. It was still a ways off, so he didn't bother turning. Instead, he tried to figure out whom it was, just from the footfalls. He liked to think it kept him sharp.

It had nothing to do with how cool he felt when the person in question got close enough and he could, without looking, say,

"Little past your bedtime, isn't it, Thor?"

The weight of the steps had been a dead giveaway. Speaking as the _smallest_ of the Avengers – he was doing alright for himself by _human_ standards, but what hope did he have against iron suits, super soldiers, and demigods? – he thought the guy was too large for his own good. For Clint, survival was all about speed and agility, being quick enough to get an arrow in the guy trying to kill you before he could get his weapon in you.

The soft, rumbling chuckle that sounded behind him set his nerves at ease on that front. A) he was right, and that _always_ made him feel better, and B) if Thor had wanted to kill him, he probably would've done it back when it would thwart the bad guy's plans.

Another chuckle, deep from Thor's chest, and Clint could almost feel it in his own as the Asgardian sat down on the edge beside him. "Ah," he said, "so I'm to assume you've slept since last I saw you?"

Clint let out a chuckle of his own. _Touché_, it said. _Touché_.

"Yeah," Clint said, "well, I didn't say it wasn't past mine, either."

They fell silent for long moment. Both men laughed at the sound of a car horn, but neither felt the need to comment. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but amiable, though Clint did eventually feel like breaking it.

"I'm gonna go get a beer," he said. Beer was good. Every man (and/or demigod) deserved a good beer after a day of world-saving heroics.

"You'll need more than one," Thor said.

Stretching – he'd been sitting there a hell of a long time – he reached over and clapped Thor amiably on the shoulder. "Hell, if you're drinking," he said with a crooked smile as he headed for what was left of the kitchen, "I'd better bring the whole damn bar."

Realistically, that was a bit ambitious. He settled on a six pack of Bud, two mugs (cause all the glasses were in little pieces on the floor), and a big ass bottle of whiskey.

Thor was waiting for him when he came back out to the roof, and he went to take the bottle from Clint.

Clint gave him the beers instead. "What kind of chum do you take me for? Selvig told me all about you."

That got an amused look from the god. "Did he, now?"

"Yep. Told me you drank him under the table and didn't even get tipsy." Reaching over, he grabbed one of the beer bottles out of the six pack and took his seat again, twisting off the cap as he did. "Have to admit, I was a little curious. Thought it might be fun to put it to the test."

"You doubt me?" Thor didn't sound so much offended as amused.

Clint shook his head. "Nah, I figure the Doc was telling the truth. But I'm no pushover myself, and I figure if I gotta get drunk with someone, it might as well be you."

Truthfully, he'd already put a hurting on a couple beers. It, like altitude, helped with the whole "thinking" thing. Hadn't done much for the guilt, though. That was what the bottle was for, and if that failed, there was a bottle of tequila he was willing to give a shot.

Unaware of Clint's inner monologue, Thor donned a roguish grin and twisted off the cap of his own bottle. "I'll drink to that, friend."

"From what I hear, you'll drink to anything."

Thor just gave a happy shrug.

"Yeah, well, tonight I just might be the same way."

And together, they raised their bottles and each took a swig.

Six beers, a bottle of scotch, and half a fifth of tequila later, things had changed a bit. The sky was still dark as ever, the city still as quiet, but its silent audience had.

They'd moved away from the edge of the roof. Probably a wise choice, especially for Clint. Agile as he was, grace only counted for so much when a guy was drunk off his ass.

For those keeping score, Clint was. Drunk off his ass, that is.

He knew it; Thor knew it.

But he still had half a bottle of tequila, and a shit ton of demons it could be chasing.

As he poured another mug, though, a hand settled over his and tipped the bottle back vertical. It took Clint a second to figure out why there wasn't any more liquid clarity pouring into his mug, but his alcohol-addled brain finally made the connection between the too-large hand on his and the sudden drought.

He looked up to see Thor watching him with big eyes and furrowed brows and just a little bit of a bourbon blush on his cheeks.

"I think perhaps you've had enough, my friend."

"Tell him that," Clint said with a frown, tapping the side of his head sluggishly. "Damn thing won't shut up."

Judging by the look on his face, Thor couldn't tell whether Clint was just being funny, or if he should really be concerned.

Honestly, neither was Clint. His head really was giving him trouble: remembering things he didn't want to remember, thinking things he didn't want to think. He'd tried to drink away what had happened while he was under Loki's control, but so far, it hadn't worked. If anything, it had just made it rawer; it had taken away his ability to reason through it, and just left him with the _feelings_ of it.

A choked sound broke from his lips, a little too defeated to be a chuckle and a little too wry to be a sob.

"Shit."

He flicked the bottle cap he'd been playing with to the ground, watching it _ping_ off the concrete and bounce directly into the beer carton.

It didn't make him feel better.

Fisting his hands in his hair, he practically doubled over, his knees coming up and his head going down.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

It wasn't _helping_. Nothing was helping. He still felt it, sharper and keener and more _painful_ than ever, it was there. What he'd done, betraying his team. Killing innocent people…they had families, and he'd killed them. He'd _almost_ helped destroy the world.

And what's worse, it'd made sense. When he'd been under the control of the tesseract, everything had made sense. Now nothing made sense, and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make it stop, and it was killing him. He wanted control, he wanted distance, he wanted—

"Barton."

He turned on his heel, one hand still wound in his hair, to see Thor standing no more than a couple feet from him.

He'd been pacing.

When had he started pacing?

Thor, for his part, look concerned. Concerned, and really _fucking_ tall. The height difference was harder to notice when he was on the top of a building looking down, doing his marksman thing while Thor did his Norse god hammer thing. Now, though, standing nearly nose to nose with the guy, he couldn't _not_ notice. The guy had him by at least half a foot.

"You're tall."

"And you're drunk."

Clint's brows furrowed; his fingers tightened in his hair. "Only a little."

"I watched you walk," Thor said blandly. "You, my friend, are very drunk."

"Matter of opinion."

"Matter of fact."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, 'very drunk' isn't drunk enough."

"For what? What are you hiding from?"

"I'm not hiding from anything. I'm drinking."

"You are drinking to hide, just as you are here on this rooftop to hide. You seek solace in this place…you seek sanctuary." He took another step towards Clint; he put his hand on his shoulder. "But from what?"

There was something in the man's gaze, in the sincerity of it…any biting retort Clint would've fired off any other time died on his lips, and he was left with nothing but the truth to breathe from his lips.

"From everything."

It was like those two words took everything he had. Like he was a marionette, and they cut through his strings. He dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands as the burning in his chest rose to furious heat. Everything. He was hiding from everything, and he couldn't—he couldn't get away. He couldn't keep his distance, couldn't keep his perspective. Everything was falling apart. Everything was coming to get him. Everything was falling down and breaking apart, and he couldn't keep it all together. Couldn't keep himself together, and everything he thought he knew was gone and replaced and back again, and he didn't know where he stood anymore. It was too much. Everything. It was too much, and he wanted to get away from—

Suddenly, there were arms around him, pulling him up and pulling him out of his head. There was moisture on his face he hadn't noticed before, warm and salty on his lips as it made a trail down his face.

It wasn't quite a hug. They were both kneeling, and Clint was so tightly curled in on himself, he would've been impossible to really embrace. But those arms were there nonetheless, grounding him. They were _there_, and that was all they were really meant to be.

"God, I killed them. Those men at the museum, People on the ship. I killed them, because it told me to. Because it said it was right, and I thought—I thought _it_ was right. I thought it was the truth, but then it was gone and I was myself again, and I knew…I _know_…Fuck, what did I do? _Fuck_, what did I _do_?"

The words came of their own accord, like a river breaking through a dam too weak, too broken and damaged to hold them back.

Those arms pulled, not tighter, but _firmer_. More solid. More _present_.

"It wasn't your fault, my friend," said Thor. Clint could feel the depth of his words echoing in his chest. "You did nothing wrong. None of this was your fault."

"It's always my fault!" His cry was muffled by his own sleeve. "Every time I fail, every time I hurt someone, it's my fault! I should have been better than that, but it got inside. It got inside and it pushed me out and I couldn't fight it. I should have fought it. Why couldn't I fight it? I'm supposed to be stronger than that. I thought I was stronger."

"There are none stronger than you, Clint Barton. Not in heart, not in mind, not in _spirit_. Do not doubt your strength." A hand settled in his hair, fingers slipping between his own, freeing locks of hair he'd twisted until his scalp screamed. "I do not."

As the words sank in, Clint felt them ease some of the burn. Like a balm on a wound, like aloe on a nasty ass sunburn, it took away some of the pain, took away the fear and desperation and guilt and regret and _everything_…and replaced it with something _better_.

Clint wasn't entirely sure how he ended up back in his bed when he woke up later that morning, or for that matter, how he ended up back in his bed plus one.

But sure enough, there he was, sprawled out in bed with his shoes off and his jeans still on, heavy one arm laid across his chest.

Beside him, Thor slept on, still holding onto Clint like he had hours before. The peace about him was infectious. The Gentle Giant, and Clint allowed the contentedness to spread through him like the warm, soothing burn of good whiskey.

He was close, Clint realized. Closer than nearly anyone before, and strangely…Clint was okay with that.

He'd finally found something that wasn't better at a distance.


End file.
